Bound to You:The Complete Novel

By: Vanessa Booke



It doesn’t help that every inch of this state reminds me of him. From the concert at the Roxy in West Hollywood where we had our first date to the Getty Museum where he asked me to be his girlfriend to Malibu Beach where he proposed. There’s no getting around him. And the worst part is—I miss him.

“Carol is offering me a couch to crash on until I find work. Her cousin Ken gave me a great reference at StoneHaven Publishing. He’s an Associate Editor there.”

“Carol Livingston?” she asks.

“Yes, you remember her, right? She was my college roommate at UCLA.”

“What is she doing in New York?”

“She does freelance public relations. She works with a lot of big name clients.”

Carol graduated two years before me and she moved to New York right away. It didn’t take long for her to find her niche. She’s great at what she does, and now she’s making the big bucks. After she left, we never lost touch. She kept inviting me to come to New York, but I could never make it because of school. Despite the thousands of miles between us, we stayed best friends. I called her for advice on moving to NY. She didn’t hesitate for a second. Within a few minutes, I received a text confirming a booking for a flight from LAX to the JFK airport. She had paid for my airfare.

“What about graduate school?” my mother says, pulling out my acceptance letter from my dresser.

“I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that.” I grab the letter from her and stuff it back inside. “I don’t know if I’m still going.”

“Is this because of Miles?”

Just hearing his name sends my heart flip-flopping. It’s hard keeping things from my mother. She’s good at reading me—too good. I hadn’t explained my fiancé’s absence, but there’s never a good way of telling someone that the person you were planning to marry cheated on you—get ready for the fire and pitchforks.

The sound of buzzing echoes from the front door all the way to the back of the house. I’m not expecting anyone... I look up at my mother, and the slight smirk on her face gives me the feeling that she is.

“I wonder who that is,” she says nonchalantly.

“Mother, who did you invite over?”

“Just a friend,” she says as she quickly slips away.

I watch her hurry down the stairs, half running. She hates keeping visitors waiting. As I step down the stairs, I spot a headful of brown hair peeking through the side of the doorway. The voice at the door is low, almost a whisper. Who the hell is my mother talking to?

“I’m so glad you came,” my mother gushes. “Rebecca will be so happy to see you. I haven’t seen you around very much.”

My heart stops at the sight of Miles standing on our front porch. From the look of his outfit, he must be on his way to the set for Future Outlaw. He’s wearing jeans, cowboy boots, and a green plaid shirt.

What the hell is he doing here?

He looks good, too good. It’s hard not to take notice of his tan skin and hazel eyes. They remind me of honey. Deep down inside I was hoping he looked as shitty as I feel, but I’m S.O.L. His eyes catch mine as I make my way down the stairs.

“Becca, it’s good to see you.” The warmth in his voice sends chills down my skin as it washes over me. My heart hammers in my chest with a chaotic beat. It’s hard to pretend like everything’s okay. The scent of cedar and aftershave tickles my nose as he steps closer.

“I’ll leave you two alone,” my mother says, scurrying off into the kitchen.

“Mrs. Gellar, it was nice to see you,” he says, taking his hat off and bowing. It’s as if I’m transported back in time. I hate the way he charms women—even my mother isn’t immune to his ways. Miles takes my hand and pulls me to the door. The gesture sends a shock through me and I pull back instantly. We haven’t touched since the day I found him in bed with Scarlett Jones, Hollywood’s sexiest starlet. On my way home the other day, I saw that she had made this month’s cover of Maxim. It took every amount of strength I had not to fling the stack of magazines off the grocery rack. I was so close.

“What do you want, Miles?” I try my best to sound apathetic. I don’t want him to know I care. I want him to think I’ve moved on because I have. Or at least that’s what I keep telling myself.

“Becca, can we talk? Alone?” he says with pleading eyes. I hate when uses his sad-puppy-dog-eyes on me. It would be so much easier to hate him if he wasn’t so good looking. Not that looks are everything, but Miles is blessed with abundance. It’s like God puts men like him on this earth to taunt me.

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